скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Adjustments?’
‘Yes. Adjustments. It’s an incredible machine. It will adapt. It has plasticity. It will learn to work in a different way. That’s what it does. That’s the one thing we do know. So… will you get back to normal?… No, I shouldn’t think so, no. Is normal something to be desired? To some people, yes. Is normal changing monthly and are you going to think in a completely, wonderfully, excitingly, unique way? Yes. I think so, yes. And. Whatever. Happens. We’re going to tackle it together.’
He claps his hands lightly.
‘Does that sound good, Tom?’
‘Yes. You are. You are. You are?’
‘Jeffrey Ryans. We have met before but don’t worry. You’ve been in and out of consciousness. No need to feel gauche. Any more questions?’
‘One.’
‘Fire away.’
I collect myself. Trying not to turn to the man. But I have to ask.
‘Who… who… who is… this man sitting next to me?’
‘Sorry, who?’ Jeffrey says.
‘Him,’ I say, pointing to the reserved gentleman on my left.
‘Ah. Now that is interesting.’
‘What?’ I say.
‘You don’t recognise him?’
My eyebrows furrow. I squint. I try to conjure something.
‘No. Should I?’
Dead air. The nurse’s face has collapsed.
Ryans smiles, a mixture of amusement and compassion.
‘Well. Tom. That’s you.’
I don’t understand this concept. I look at him pleadingly. He speaks again.
‘That’s a mirror, Tom. You see its edges? There?’
I look back at the face in the frame. No memories of this man. Nothing. Not a flicker. I shake my head. The silent man shakes his head, too. I don’t trust him. I turn away, then back quickly, trying to catch him out.
I turn back to the Doctor. I shake my head again.
He folds his arms. He understands.
I open my mouth.
‘Blossom,’ I say. ‘Fruits. Fucking fuck! Blossom. Bollocks. I mean… blossom. Argh!’
5 (#ulink_43aa5940-4490-5d34-a92e-a3be849d60f5)
‘Because it’s bigger than you,
But you’re lighting a fuse
And you’re playing to lose
Because it’s bigger than you’
‘Tom? Tom? Sorry. Tom? Tom?’
‘Yes,’ I respond straight away.
‘You’ll be stationed with PCSO Bartu?’ says the man dressed as a policeman.
I turn to him and nod. He smiles back. Nicely. Nice guy.
‘Great. That’s great. Do I… Do I…’
The room waits for me to find my thought. Giving me supportive eyes.
‘Do I… have to have… a partner? I’ll… be okay. On my own, you know.’
The others look to the main man. He sucks in his bottom lip and wets it. His eyes flicker to the left. Then to the right. To the other six people seated either side of us in the locker room. Some men. Some women.
‘We’re going to put you with Bartu. Just for now. It’s standard procedure for anyone who’s had extended time off. Even if it’s only three months.’
No, it’s not. I’ve had time on my hands. I’ve been filling in any gaps of knowledge on all sorts of areas but particularly police procedure and neurology. I want to understand what’s happening to me and what I’m getting myself into. Above all, I want to be aware of those two things. So I’ve been researching. Voraciously. Every day, with a fire and will I’ve never had before. I use a program that reads to me. But I always read the first three words myself, I’m rigorous about that, even if it takes an hour. Then I let the voice take over and we learn together.
‘You don’t need to go on your bike either, until you’re ready. So Bartu will be keeping fit with you on foot or if you need it you also have access to a vehicle.’
‘I’ll drive. Let me drive!’ I shout.
They recoil a bit. No sudden movements. I remind myself. It makes the ‘normals’ tense.
‘I can drive,’ I say. Softly. Watering myself down for the room.
I’m now what’s called Preternaturally Sensitive. It means my inhibitions have receded due to injury to my frontal lobe. So if I want to say or do something, I usually do it.
You won’t find me shouting out swear words as with Verbal Tourette’s, which is a turning off of inhibitions as well as an enlarged tic-like propensity to say what shouldn’t be said. It’s just a new facet of my character. Not that I am psychiatrically different, as such. No, like Tourette’s, it’s not a psychiatric issue, but rather a neurobiological one of a hyperphysiological sort. Which is quite different. With me? Good.
This replacement of inhibition with drive arrived as if by magic. Soon after my first couple of meetings with Dr Ryans, I wanted out of there. Away from the hospital’s warm arms and succour. Not in a fearful way, I just had things to do. I felt charged. Like someone had put a new kind of battery in me.
After I eventually made it out, when they were satisfied that I could do things like document distinct memories and walk (not perfectly, I tend to drag my left foot more than I pick it up and good lord I’m not ready to ride a bike yet) I started devouring knowledge in a way I’d never even considered before the bullet. Doctor Ryans says I merely wanted to make up for lost time, to test my consciousness and attention span to see how much more it could do for me. To see whether, if I tried hard enough each day, if I laboured then slept and then woke and then laboured again, each sleep could take me closer to home. To the mind I used to have. That’s how Ryans put it, but I wouldn’t say it was that. I didn’t want to be the same as I was before. I wanted to be better. I felt somehow I already was.
‘Pre-bullet’ I was directionless. ‘Post-bullet’ I had a lust for the world. I started to feel sorry for the ‘pre-bullet’ me. Listless. An apathetic approach to the possibilities of the day. I was motivationally shambolic. ‘Post-bullet’ me could have him for breakfast.
The physio would come each morning. We would work. Then I would sit in front of my computer and use the programme to find gaps in my knowledge. Once my shopping was delivered I would make myself a new recipe I had found online that’d intrigued me.
I would learn more.
I would do my exercises.
I would defecate perfectly.
I would write a poem, or lullaby, or do a pencil drawing.
I would get headaches and cramps and fears.
I would ignore them.
I would learn more. Then I’d sleep.
I sleep less. I found I didn’t need as many revitalising hours as I had previously indulged in. Getting up before sunrise was now a regular thing. I like waking in the dark. It meant I could engender a routine. I could warm up before physio and make myself something with perfect nutritional value for breakfast.
I learnt about health and the body obsessively.
Did you know that a stitch when you run is caused by your diaphragm? It gets pulled around when you jog, so if it hurts take a slower, more even pace and longer smoother breaths.
Did you know that if your food wasn’t mixed with your saliva then you wouldn’t be able to taste it?
Did you know the average person falls asleep in 7 minutes?
Did you know that stewardesses is the longest word you can type using only your left hand when utilising a standard keyboard in the correct manner?
Did you know 8% of people have an extra rib?
I used to be an eight hours a night man or I was useless. I need only five and half now and they serve me better than my sleep ever did before. In my waking hours I feel more awake than I ever have.
I couldn’t read, my brain wasn’t letting me yet. But I could focus on the little things and block out the distracting thoughts. In short, I could listen like a motherfucker. Pardon my French. Lack of inhibitive reflex plus mild aphasia there: ‘impaired ability to speak the appropriate word for the scenario, or the one your brain is searching for.’ In other words, I send for a good formal noun, in this case ‘genius’, but by the time it comes down the chute some joker has switched it for ‘motherfucker.’ Apologies again.
I longed for things passionately, like I never had before.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to watch movies and fully understand them.
I wanted to climb remote exotic mountains.
I wanted mystery and love and mysterious love.
I wanted to be able to drive.
‘For the moment, it’s best if you don’t drive. Order from on high. Probably an insurance thing, something like that.’
I know he’s lying but I appreciate his tact. He has an upright stance. He has initiative. Gumption. I like him. I give him a thumbs-up.
A crease in his face tells me he’s not sure whether this gesture is an ironic manoeuvre. Little does he know I don’t have anywhere near the outward mental processing speed required for irony yet.
He moves on and says some more things with his mouth. I take my cheat pad out of my pocket and write. You see, I can still write, as the part of my brain that turns thoughts into symbols works fine, but curiously the bit that interprets those symbols back into words? Different matter. Pun intended.
So I know I won’t be able to read this back but the act of writing it down helps me commit it to memory. I observe. The others peer at me but I block them out with ease, with my genius focus. I write:
Upright stance. Gumption. Fair and balding. Wire frame circular glasses. Highly Caucasian.
On the upper left of his jacket, where his breast would be, are some symbols. A word I think. It starts with an L.
L. E. Then one I can’t make out, then an I, and it ends with another E. The process takes a while and my straining to establish the word at this point has become a spectacle, which everyone is pretending manfully not to notice.
LE_I_E. Lee? Can I call him Lee? Leon. Lean? Levine? Levine! I’ve heard that somewhere before. Ah. Of course. Levine. So that’s Levine. I remember him. I think he’s recently been promoted.
Levine. Or Upright-Gumption-Bald-Glasses-White-Face. As I will call him. In my mind.
I turn and see another man to my right, close to my head. He holds out his hand, luckily, because that means he might whisper his name. I may have seen him before, it’s quite possible. I’ll probably remember him. Because, you see, it’s not the remembering exactly I struggle with. No, it’s not that, it’s another thing.
‘Hey. I’m Emre Bartu. Good to meet you,’ he says with a wink.
Yes. He’ll do. I keep out my cheat sheet and start to write.
Bouncy. Kind. Black hair. Deep voice. Brown face.
I realise I haven’t said anything back to him. As is certainly customary. I think I just locked eyes with him and started writing.
Multi-tasking is hard so I have to stop for a second to mutter something pleasant-sounding to him.
‘I’m Tom Mondrian. Can you stay still please? I’m looking at your head.’
He smiles and does so. He nods, his eyes flicker to the side, which indicates he’s a bit confused by all this. Then he holds his pose like he’s having his school photo taken.
A thought hits me from nowhere that someone once said he was Turkish. I don’t know where I got that from but my mind has offered it to me as useful information so it’s best to follow it up.
‘You’re a Turkey,’ I say.
‘What mate?’ he says.
‘Sorry. I mean. You’re a Turkey.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry. Shit. I mean. You’re a Turkey. Ahhh,’ I shout, frustrated. Damn aphasia.
The room looks up for a second and I hold up my hand to apologise. They go back to talking about their beat, what they have to do that day, that kind of thing.
‘Sorry. You’re a Turkey. Shit! You’re… Turkish?’ I bend my voice at the last minute, it had taken so long to splutter it into the world I’d forgotten that it was supposed to be a question.
